


desired

by 43sparrows



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Adult Number Five | The Boy, Aged-Up Number Five | The Boy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Five never jumped forward, Alternate Universe - No Apocalypse (Umbrella Academy), Angst, Angst and Feels, Booty Calls, Casual Sex, Dominance, F/M, Friends With Benefits, No Strings Attached, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25972792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/43sparrows/pseuds/43sparrows
Summary: You met Five after a break up, and he was exactly what you needed then. Sex. Nothing more. Nothing less.But this has been going on for months, and you're starting to feel like maybe you need a bit more.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Original Character(s), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Original Female Character(s), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Reader, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Original Female Character(s), Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy)/Reader, Number Five | The Boy/Original Character(s)
Comments: 130
Kudos: 533





	1. wanted

**Author's Note:**

> First, and most importantly, Five is not a teenager in this. Nor is he a 58 year old man. He never jumped, and he's the same age as the rest of his siblings. In this story that's early 20s. I so get why a lot of people are weirded out by Five stories, but his character is just too interesting to not explore the dynamics of him in a relationship. I think of it the same way I write for Harry Potter or Peter Parker.

The thing about Five is that he only ever says what he has to. 

He never lies and he never sugarcoats, but he tells careful truths that open doors and shut blinds as he sees fit. The boy knows how to command language with the precision of a sniper, and this, coupled with his taciturnity, makes it next to impossible to discern what goes on in his head. 

It's his actions that paint a clearer picture of his inner workings. 

Because Five never does anything that he categorically doesn't want to do. He's too brilliant for that--knows too many different ways to achieve the same end goal.

So you don't have a single question about whether or not he wants you. You know he does. He's shoved you up against a wall more times than you can count, pressing into you so you can feel his want on every inch of him. It's exhilarating, and for months it's been enough. But recently you've felt a small pinprick of hope in the back of your mind—just enough to be sharp and annoying—that he could possibly want to  _ be with _ you. 

This idea is ridiculous of course. 

If he wanted, you’d already be together. Giving secret smiles instead of bedroom eyes. Whispering about your future plans rather than instructions to  _ fuck me harder  _ or  _ touch yourself _ . 

But he doesn't want you like that.  He wants you desperately trying to keep quiet underneath him, sweat beading off his forehead as he chases a release from life in the Umbrella Academy. 

You let out a needy gasp as he lifts your leg and puts it over his shoulder. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he whispers, a hand coming up to brace himself against the headboard. 

A small spark of excitement bursts like a firework inside of your chest. Sounds hardly come out of Five when you are tangled in the sheets. Any words spoken are questions or commands. There's no praise. There's definitely no sweet nothings. There's hardly even any dirty talk. That comes before, and it's only a means to an end. Kind of like his kisses.

When you first realized his laconic nature extended to the bedroom, it became your mission to make him moan. To make  _ him _ struggle to keep quiet for the sake of your roommate or, on the rare occasions you're at his place, his sister. But other than when your lips are wrapped around him, tongue caressing its way up his shaft, it seems like a near impossible task.

He, on the other hand, plays you like a fiddle. He knows exactly how to compose a symphony of your sighs, whines, gasp, mewls, and any other sound he wants to hear. This new angle has earned him more than one moan, muffled only by you biting your knuckle.

"You close?" he grunts, eyes fixated on the finger in your mouth.

You nod, and he increases his pace slightly. You're constantly overwhelmed at how he seems to be able to push himself to go just a bit faster, just a bit harder, just a bit deeper. You still haven't found this man's limits.

The tension that's been coiling in your stomach is winding its way up your spine, and you feel ready to snap at any moment. Five knocks your hand out of the way with his free one, sticking two fingers in your mouth. The action has you mounting even higher, but the look in his eyes when you start to suck on his fingers is what sends you over the edge. Your back arches as all breath leaves you, your high rushing through you and escaping around Five's fingers in a high pitched squeak. Five's pace stutters and finally he stills. 

He withdraws himself as soon as he's finished.

There's no aftercare. Sure there are the practical matters he tends to. He disposes of the condom, gets you a washcloth, helps to locate the clothes you've thrown elsewhere. But after that, he's gone. Popped out of existence. Like nothing happened.

This had been a relief when you first met--on the night your friends dragged you to a bar so you could forget about your ex.

It wasn't that there was anything in particular  _ to  _ forget. He had been a good guy. Thoughtful. Friendly. The kind of person you'd bring home to your parents. The kind who was future material. Which apparently you weren't. 

That wasn't the kind of thing a night out would make you forget. 

Maybe your friends just wanted to ease the blunt force trauma of rejection. Maybe they just wanted you to forget for a few hours. Maybe they wanted you to find someone like Five.

You can still remember how it felt the first time he looked at you--how you could feel the weight of his stare before you even laid eyes on him. And when you did finally meet his eyes...it was the kind of gaze that crushed all of the air out of your lungs and set your skin on fire. The kind that drew you in even as you felt compelled to turn away from all of the heady promises in it. 

In one moment, you had broken away and turned your attention back to your friends' conversation. In the next, he was beside you.

_ "What are you drinking?"  _

_ You swivelled in your seat to find the man from across the bar standing next to you, gesturing with his chin for the bartender to come over. Your eyes raked up and down his tall, slender frame. "Gin."  _

_ He quirked an eyebrow at the small row of glasses in front of you. "Neat?"  _

_ "It's more efficient." Behind you, your roommate snorted at your inability to flirt. Still, the fact earned you a wry smile and a shot of gin. _

_ "The most efficient," he informed, clinking his glass to yours. _

The night fell away from you after that. It had to be the quick succession of drinks coupled with his intoxicating presence. You don't remember the moment your friends abandoned you. You don't remember what you and Five sat chatting about. The specifics of the night were lost to time and alcohol. All that remained was the memory of his warm, slightly calloused hand, sliding its way up from your knee and the hungry look in his eyes.

The next memory after that was in your apartment, tongues and teeth clashing together as the two of you ran into the walls, the island, your dresser, the edge of your bed. And then the clothes were off and your fingernails were raking down his back, and you felt more alive than you had all month. 

When you woke up with a monstrous hangover and delicious ache between your legs, you were alone. It had been a welcome surprise. After all, you were surfacing from a wasted two years--extricating yourself from a one-night rebound was the last thing you wanted to do. You didn't want to have the clarifying "this was just about sex" and "I'm not looking for anything after this" talk. You didn't want the memory of feeling absolutely  _ wanted  _ to be tainted. 

You wanted freedom. You wanted casual. 

And the powers that be had granted your request with an empty bed and a scrap of notebook paper with a scribbled phone number and three words:  _ Had fun - Five _

A knock sounds from your door and for a second you think it might be Five, but he never knocks. He always just appears. The first time he did it, you'd nearly pissed yourself. The smug bastard had smirked and said, " _ Huh. Thought I mentioned this. _ " And then a few short sentences later you fell into bed. 

It has to be your roommate. And you're in no state for a visitor. Your hair is still mussed, your lips swollen, and your room smells heavily of sweat and sex.

"Y/N?" her voice echoes through the door, and you shut your eyes. "You guys want coffee?"

"Yeah, one sec." 

It takes more than one second. It takes five minutes alone to get your hair looking somewhat under control, and after noticing a dark hickey just above your collarbone, you have to switch shirts as well. By the time you exit your room, the coffee pot is beeping and your roommate is pouring you a mug and handing it off. Gratefully, you accept it, checking the clock on the microwave. 

_ 11:27 am.  _ A bit late to be exiting your room for the first time. A bit early for a booty call. Even for a Sunday. 

"He's gone?" your roommate asks, still hovering by the coffee pot as you take a seat at the kitchen table. You nod, cradling the drink in your hands as you take small, tentative sips at the edge. 

She heaves out a sigh and puts the third mug up into the cupboard. She should know by now: he doesn't stay. He doesn't want your coffee. He doesn't want your company. He only wants you _.  _


	2. needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry it took forever to get this out. I had to rework my idea on it. I hope you like this next installment. Also forgot to mention my inspiration for this fic: “Love will subsist on wonderfully little hope but not altogether without it.” - Sir Walter Scott

_ Need you.  _

The note taped to your mirror is written in an all too familiar scrawling handwriting. The paper is also familiar. It's clearly been torn from the open day planner on your vanity.

Despite the fact that you're home two hours past when you wanted to be-- Despite the fact that it's late and you haven't even eaten-- Despite the fact that your roommate is in the next room with a group of your friends watching  _ the Bachelorette _ \-- you tug the note down and walk to the hallway phone. Dialing in the number is mechanic--your finger acting on muscle memory alone as you stare at the paper in your hand. The top is a jagged white line that cuts through your boxes of to dos and appointments and events. It's a good thing you didn't have anything else planned for today.

He picks up on the third ring. "Five." 

"Hey, I got your note," you say, keeping your voice down. From the living room, you hear one of your friends exclaim  _ Girl, no! Don't listen to his bullshit! _

"And?" 

You shake your head as if he can see it. "Nasreen has friends over, so here's no good." 

"Come over." 

You know this doesn't count as an invite. He says it out of necessity. He wants you. And Five gets what he wants. Still, your heart flutters a bit in your chest at the faintest tinge of hope that  _ maybe  _ when he says he needs you, he means it in more than just the usual way.

"Ok," you nod, again forgetting the basic concept of a phone call. "Give me like 15 min--." 

There's a dial tone before you can even finish the sentence, let alone say goodbye. You sigh, hanging the phone back in its place on the wall as screams of outrage from the living room echo throughout the apartment. You're not looking forward to telling your roommate you can't stay for girl's night. Not in front of all the other girls. But he needs you. And after the day you've had, you kind of need him too.

You head back towards your bedroom to change, nudging the door to your room open with your elbow. You almost jump out of your skin when your eyes land on Five standing in the middle of the room. 

"Couldn't wait," he says, crossing the room in two long strides before grabbing a hold of you. 

In one second it feels like your body is shrinking in on itself and in the next you're stretching too far and too fast, but when the feeling settles, you're in Five's entryway and he's pressing you up against his door, pushing your shirt up over your head. The moment the fabric is free from your body his lips return to your neck, biting, tugging, sucking at the skin there as you throw your head back against the door, a  _ thunking  _ sound covering your whimpers. 

Five deftly unbuckles your pants, shoving them along with your underwear down your legs. He's unwilling to stop his current assault of your collarbone, though, leaving you to ungracefully and hurriedly step yourself out of the pants. You might have fallen if it weren't for his vice like grip at your waist, pinning you to the door. 

Your own hands find their way into Five's hair. He's due for a haircut, his sweeping bangs falling into his eyes and tickling your skin as he drops his lips to the skin left exposed by your bra. You push it back for him, but when he nips at the soft skin of your breasts, your fingers wind themselves into his locks pulling sharply so that he lets out a hiss. It's not much of a sound, but you'll take it as a victory. 

It was an easy win though. You know that when he's like this, he just needs to feel something. He needs sharp reminders to keep him here in this moment instead of letting his mind wander off to wherever it was before the two of you wound yourselves around each other. 

You tug at his hair again and his hips jerk forward into yours, eliciting a gasp from you. Or maybe it's not the small taste of friction. Maybe it's the fact that at almost the same moment, he unclasps your bra, and his mouth drops to cover your nipple.

It's not until his fingers pinch and roll at the other nipple that you realize, vaguely, that he's wearing too much clothes. It takes little prompting to get him to take off his shirt, and as he's busying himself with pulling it over his head, your hands drop to his belt and your whole body drops to its knees. Your hardly able to enjoy yourself there, though, since the second his pants and underwear pool at his feet, he's pulling you to yours and pushing you hard against the door. His hands come under your thighs, and you jump up, wrapping your legs around him, arms crossed behind his neck, your body nearly vibrating in anticipation of what comes next. It takes a second for him to roll on the condom he must have grabbed before his pants came off, the silver packaging falling to the floor as he coaxes the rubber down his shaft. The anticipation and heat of your bodies pressed together as your heart racing, and then in one swift move, he's entered you, his fast pace pounding out a rhythmic knocking sound against the door. You bury your face into his neck to muffle your cries, allowing your arms to unwind and fingernails rake up his back. His thrusting stutters and then returns as you bite into his shoulder.

There's no warning when he turns you, walking you backwards, his hands kneading at your ass on his way to somewhere else in your apartment.You ache for the feeling of him inside of you again, and trail your fingernails along his back again, as if this was enough to silently coax him to do what you wanted. 

Five has never let you take control, though. Instead, he drops you to your feet, and before you can feel properly confused, a chair is clattering to the floor and he has you spun around and bent over his table. His pace is even more relentless as he takes you from behind, one hand pressing your cheek harder into the table as each thrust slams your thighs into the table. You feel the familiar pressure building inside of you, and you snake a hand down to rub at your clit. Five's thrusts grow even harder, and your eyes are squeezed shut, and you're biting at your lip so hard you can taste copper, and then there are stars. 

But he's not done. Not even close.

You've come twice by the time he finally does, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other holding your hip with a bruising grip. His eyes shut, and he looks beautiful like that. But it's nothing like the short seconds that follow, as he relaxes and looks...almost peaceful. You don't always get a glimpse of this Five, but when you do, it's enough to make you believe in God.

Five pulls out, walking away to dispose of the condom and you take a second to lay there, legs dangling off the table, trying to catch your breath. 

You hear Five walk back into the room and push yourself up into a sitting position. His back is towards you as he walks towards the door and your pile of clothes, letting you admire the angry red streaks you've left there. It's a twisted sort of delight to know that even though you'll be back home soon, all traces of you and this moment won't be gone. 

"You want coffee?" Five asks, and your eyes shoot up to his mussed hair. He stoops to pick up the pile of clothes, gathering it in his arms and crossing back to the table so he can dump it into a pile next to you. You extract your underwear from where it's stuck in your pants, sliding it up your legs as much as you can without getting up. 

"Yeah," you nod, as if this was nothing. Which it was. It was nothing. He'd asked you to stay for coffee twice before. It was another one of his codes. 

He nods, pulling his pants up over his hips, underwear and all. Rather than messing with the belt, he lets it clink together as he heads into the kitchen, quickly washing his hands before pulling down some coffee. You allow yourself to slip from the table's ledge so you can continue getting dressed. Your muscles are already starting to feel sore, and as you zip your tight suit pants closed, you can feel how tender the skin around your hips already is. You'll probably have a host of bruises tomorrow morning. Traces of Five would remain too.

By the time you've gone to the bathroom, sanitized the table, and finished a quick Lysol wipe-down of the door, the french press is ready. Five brings it over to the table along with two mugs. He gives you a vintage Umbrella Academy mug with the logo on one side and a large "5" on the other. He keeps the plain white diner-style mug for himself.

Five pours his cup first before passing it over to you. You fill your mug in silence and then keep it cupped between your hands, bringing it to your lips to take a taste. 

You learned early on that Five was good at everything he did. And that included making the best damn coffee. 

"How bad was it?" you ask, keeping your mug between your hands and elbows propped up on the table. 

He doesn't answer right away, but you've learned that this doesn't mean he won't answer at all. Instead he looks over your shoulder, gazing off into the distance and letting the silence drape itself around the two of you.

"Bad," he says finally, bringing his gaze to his coffee and then taking a long sip. He doesn't look up at you, instead staring at the dark pool of liquid. "Lost a kid." 

His words are matter of fact, and cause a dull, achy kind of pain in your heart. One part for the injustice of losing a child to an act of evil, another for the heartbreak of the child's parents, and the largest for the misery, anger, frustration, and guilt swimming in this man in front of you. 

Any words of your own are meaningless. He doesn't need you to tell him that it probably wasn't his fault, or that you were sorry, or that this situation sucked. You want to reach out and hold his hand, but the action's too intimate. Too gentle. 

So instead, you sit across from him and nod, placing your mug down on the table so you can stare into yours as well. And finally, after you feel like a respectful amount of silence has passed, you murmur one word: 

"Fuck."

Five exhales a humorless laugh. "Yeah," he agrees, his eyes looking up to meet yours. "Exactly."

The conversation never moving on from there. Instead, you each sit in the quiet, sipping at your coffee together and yet miles apart. Five finishes first and patiently waits for you to drain your mug of its last drop before you get up, leaving the coffee cups and french press on the table, and head into his bedroom. Five follows closely behind.


	3. reject

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've extended the story so it will be 5 chapters. :)

It's a huge ass diamond.

The newspaper is still open on your coffee table, and you can see the grainy black and white picture from your spot on the couch. You _shouldn't_ be able to spot the ring from this far, not with your eyes as puffy as they are, not with the tears constantly clouding your vision, but the small white spot practically glows amongst all the grey. It's probably all the carats.

You snatch a tissue from where the box sits at the end table, running it under your eyes to collect tears and make up. There's a part of you that wishes your roommate was here to bitch about how ugly the girl was and how dumb he was. To remind you of how the sex was only ever good and help get your mind off of it. 

But she left for her parents' last night and wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening. So it's just you and Laura Williams from Channel 13, whose story about a soldier returning home to surprise his pregnant wife is doing absolutely nothing to ease the shaking breaths that leave you. 

A knock sounds from the front door, stopping further descent down the spiral. Instead, you push yourself up from the couch and haul yourself over to the door, one shuffling footstep after the next. There's another knock as you undo the deadbolt and pull the door open.

Five stands before you with eyebrows raised. His look shifts slightly as he takes you in, his gaze intensifying as he studies your face. A wave of anxiousness crashes over you, leaving a gut twisting feeling of embarrassment in its wake. You've never cried in front of Five. There's never been much of a reason to, but even when you've stumbled into things or had a bad day, you've always been so careful to keep it in. It seems like just your luck that he'd walk in on you feeling your absolute lowest.

"Bad time?" he asks.

"Kind of," you say, wiping at the tears under your eyes once more with the tissue that's still in your hand. You hope you don't resemble a raccoon, but you have a feeling that the powers that be aren't taking any of your requests at the moment. 

"What happened?" He's direct and to the point, like always. No offer to kill someone for you or gently asking if you want to talk about it. Still, it's a bit surprising that he's waiting for an answer as opposed to teleporting away. 

"Just a long day. A long bad day," you needlessly clarify. His head tilts slightly but he doesn't press you on it. He doesn't need to. "Work is rough," you offer up.

"That sucks," Five says. He either doesn't know you well enough to tell you're lying, or doesn't care enough to try. Either way it cuts deeper than it probably should. You blame it on the fact that you're emotionally raw right now because there are only so many truth's you're capable of facing at once. And you're already feeling overloaded. Your head keeps cycling through the same five truths.

You'd been with your ex for two whole years and he'd never even broached the topic of moving in. 

It only took him eight months to fall in love and get engaged with someone else.

In the same eight months all you got was a friend with benefits minus the actual friendship.

All you want is to be hugged and there's nobody around who'll do that

You're all alone.

The near silence between you seems to exacerbate this last truth, only the sound of Laura Williams' voice in the background announcing a new birth at the zoo cuts through the quiet. It's almost a full minute of willing your eyes not to water before Five speaks again. "Do you want me to leave?"

You're not sure if he's being the world's biggest asshole or doing his best at being considerate. You are sure there's absolutely no way you can make it through a session with him without bursting into more tears. You're also sure that you don't want him to leave. Not at all.

"I'm not really up for anything right now," you shake your head, looking down at the crumpled and stained tissue that's still in your hand. 

Five doesn't say anything, and you bet he's either nodding or still staring at you like he's trying to read your thoughts. And then you see his feet angle themselves away from you, ready to leave. Your heart sinks in your chest. You shouldn't have expected him to offer to stay. To comfort you. You need to stop hoping for things that he would never--could never--deliver. Because being warm and caring--that's not Five. It never has been.

"Hey." His voice calls to you, and you hate how quickly your head snaps to him. "Make some coffee, take a bath, and put on something other than the news." 

You nod as he offers a ghost of a sympathetic smile before turning and vanishing. 

You close the door, walk back into your apartment, reach over for the remote and turn off the news.

* * *

It's approximately six hours later, and you're still on the couch but at least now you're standing on it and surrounded by all of your new closest friends: Jack, Jim, Johnnie, Jose--all of the J's and of course remnants of the Captain from last time you and your roommate made mojitos. 

Who the fuck needed people when you had these guys and a playlist of 2000s hits.

Not you. 

It was a good thing your roommate wasn't home. There's no way she wouldn't have made fun of your dance moves as you let the beat of the Black Eyed Peas' "Don't Phunk With My Heart" take control of your limbs. And while to the outside eye it might look as if you'd lost control of your motor skills, it felt _good_ just giving in to the influence of the music and your friends.

"Y/N?" 

You turn more quickly than your legs are ready for, stumbling over yourself to face the person in your apartment. You tumble off the couch and just barely stop yourself from hitting the ground by throwing out a hand and bracing yourself against the coffee table.

"Five?" you ask, squinting your eyes at him. You can't tell if his face is more amused or bemused, your eyes keep being drawn back to the quirk at the corner of his mouth. He nods at you, tilting his head slightly. 

"What are you doing?" It takes a minute to parse his voice out from will.i.am's rapping.

"Dancing. What are _you_ doing?" You return back, pushing yourself up to your feet. His eyes run over you and your apartment, seeming to take in the scene more fully. From the fact that you're only wearing a bralette and sweatpants (which has never been your style but you spilled one of the whiskeys on your shirt) to the various pages of the newspaper scattered around the apartment and the song pulsating through the room. 

_Don't you worry about a thing, baby_

_'Cause you know you got me by a string, baby._

Five takes a step forward, examining the assortment of bottles on your coffee table.

"You called me," he says, picking up the bottle of Jack Daniels that doesn't have more than a swallow left in it. "Eight times. Did you drink all of these?" he asks, gesturing towards you with the bottle.

You scoff at the ridiculousness of the question. As if you could drink five handles of liquor and still be on your feet. "No, they were mostly empty." 

He nods, putting the bottle back down on the table and then looks at you out of the side of his eye as the song ends. "Are you going to tell me what's really going on now?" Five asks, turning slowly to face you fully as the intro for the next sing picks up. You pause, staring at him as your brain tries to piece together what he's asking you. It's not until the verse starts that it clicks. You nod, reaching for the nearest page of the newspaper. It's cartoons. It takes a few more tries to find the right page before you thrust it at Five. You watch as his eyes run over the paper, and rock along to the song as you wait for him to finish reading. 

_Never meant to make your daughter cry_

_I apologize a trillion times._

_I'm sorry Ms. Jackson--_

"Ooh," you sing along to the one part of the song you're able to keep up with. Five tosses the paper onto the table. 

"Your ex?"

You nod, bouncing your shoulders to the beat. "He's getting _married,"_ you sing at Five despite the fact that it is not a line to the song and you are horribly off tune. 

"Statistically, it'll only last eight years," Five responds, but his eyes continue to linger on you, watching as you make a horrible attempt at lip syncing the rap. He pauses, narrowing his eyes lightly before asking: "You're still…in love with him?"

This elicits another scoff from you. "No," you say as if he's stupid for even suggesting it. "No, no, no-no." You stumble towards him. "He--no," you shake your head, grabbing onto Five's arm so you can brace yourself. You pause, squeezing at his tricep, momentarily distracted by how _muscular_ he is.

"Y/N," Five prompts, and you look up at him and into his green eyes.

"I just wish I had something to shove in his face," you say, withdrawing your hand from Five so you can cup your hands to hold this imaginary item. "Something to show him how wrong he was about me. You know? I'm fucking future material," you say shaking your hands in Five's face. You step back, grabbing the handle of Captain Morgan from the coffeetable. "But it looks like he was right," you mumble, looking down into the clear liquid that sloshes at the bottom of the bottle. "The fucker was right. I'm a reject." You lift the rum to your lips to take a swig only to find it yanked from your grasp.

"Hey!" you shout in protest, reaching for the bottle, but Five shakes his head and finishes it off before you can get it back. "Asshole," you mutter, brow furrowed. 

"You didn't need it," he shakes his head, placing the bottle down as you glare at him. Five turns and begins to walk away towards your bedroom. He pauses half-way there and looks at you. "Are you coming or not?"

You almost trip over the couch in your hurry to follow him. 

You do fall over when you make the poor decision to try to take off your pants on the way to the bedroom. Five's head sticks out your door at the sound, and seeing you on the ground, pants wrapped around your left ankle and right calf, he sighs and comes back out. After a few moments of furious kicking, you're free of the pants and Five is bending over you. It takes a second to realize what's happening, but the next thing you know he's hoisted you over his shoulder and is hauling you off into the bedroom. The act sends tingles racing through your body in anticipation despite the fact that your head feels significantly more cloudy and it's hard to focus on much. 

Your back hits the mattress, and Five is hovering over you once more, but something is off. He's not on the bed. And his hands aren't on you. Instead, he's creating a wall of pillows behind you. As he draws away, you catch hold of his arm and tug him towards you, lifting yourself up off the bed enough so that your lips connect. 

Even though your world is fuzzy, the feeling of his lips against yours are enough to keep you pinned in this moment. You reach up with your other hand to pull him even lower, to deepen the kiss, to make him join you in this bed where he belongs, but instead he backs out of your grasp, gently breaking himself free. It would sting more if your limbs weren't so heavy, if your eyelids weren't drooping, if you weren't already half asleep.

* * *

You wake up the next morning feeling like shit. 

Everything hurts and it seems like your skull is actively trying to split itself in half. Getting out of bed is a process that looks far more like coordinated falling than getting up and at 'em. You walk heavily, stiff legged into the kitchen, and there is one piece of mercy. 

Sitting on your counter is a full carafe of coffee with a mug and bottle of aspirin sitting next to it.

You feel a little less like shit.


	4. deserved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of "reject" but from Five's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing the next chapter and realized I needed write some of the last chapter from Five's perspective. Things just kind of spiraled from there, so here's a bonus piece!

When Five comes back, there's a series of post-it notes next to key bowl written in Vanya's loose script.  _ Call Y/N back.  _

The next post-it is stuck to the first.  _ Y/N called again & asked when you'd be back. Said it's not an emergency, but she does need you?  _ Of course Vanya was confused by that. The code shouldn't be too hard to crack, but sometimes her well meaningness gets in the way of her astuteness. 

The last post-it is beside the first two:  _ Out with Allison + Klaus at Don Pablo's. Come if you can! _

It's a tempting offer after the day he's had. He loves Don Pablo's margaritas and even if he doesn't want to put up with Klaus' nonsense or Allison's fans, he does love his siblings. 

But Y/N always calls him when he needs her. She deserves the same.

Before he can dial her number in, the flashing red light of the answering machine catches his attention. There are six messages.

_ Hey, it's Y/N again. I'm so sorry for calling too much. I just...I changed my mind if you want to come over. You don't have to, but I'll be here. All night. Bye.  _

_ Hi. It's Y/N. I, um, I would love your company right now. Or like soon. Or you know, as soon as you're available. Unless you don't want--don't want to. That's cool too. Um, ok, sorry again for calling so much, bye. _

In the next voicemail, he hears music in the background. Hi.  _ I'm not trying to be needy. Everything's just shit, and you're not. So thanks for not being shit, and call me back. Or just come over. Whichever. Both. No, the second one. K, thanks, byeee. _

The music is slightly louder, but her voice is even closer to the phone, almost muffled.  _ Hi, hey, so, I just...I wish...I'm probably stupid, but I think I...yeah, no, nevermind, I'm stupid. Ok, byeeeeee. _

The next voicemail starts out in the middle of her sentence. Or rather, lyric. _  
_ _\-- thing that got me trippin'_ _  
_ _This one thing your soul made me feel it_ __  
_It's this one thing you did oh, oh--_ _  
__Oh, shit._ She giggles. __It's your voicemail. Sorryyyyyy-- She cuts off then.

This song is softer, and her voice is more slurred than even the last message.  _ What the fuck am I doing. What the fuck am I even doing? Look _ _ if you're with someone else, that's ok. It's ok. I get it. Ok? I get it. I'm sorry to keep calling. I don't know. I--I'm sorry. I hope you guys are happy together. You deserve to be happy. I just--fuck.  _ There's a pause before she hangs up, and in the pause he catches the lyric:  __ _ We'll be playmates and lovers, and share our secret worlds. _

Margaritas will have to wait. 

He's in her living room in the next second, and he's never seen her like this. The voicemails were one thing--the range of emotions and descent into intoxication--but she's thrown a one person party, and it's one of the most goddamn pathetic things he's ever seen. He hates it. 

"Y/N?" he asks, and she falls off the fucking couch in her effort to turn around. 

"Five?" she asks, as if surprised to see him there. As if she hadn't called him eight times just to make sure he came. He nods. Her mood seems to have changed from the last voicemail at least, but this all still seems wrong. As wrong as it felt earlier to see her come to do the door with smudged mascara and a tight voice. 

"What are you doing?" She doesn't respond right away, her face still screwed up in confusion. 

"Dancing. What are  _ you  _ doing?" She stands then, wobbly on her legs. She's never been the most graceful person, but if Five had to guess, he'd blame this on the assortment of empty bottles on her coffee table. There's too many of them and they're way too big. He can't tell if he should be impressed or concerned, so he settles on an emotion somewhere between the two. 

"You called me," he reminds, picking up a bottle of Tennessee honey whiskey. One of the two bottles that still has any liquor left in it. He wonders if he should drink this now or find a way to hide it from her. "Eight times. Did you drink all of these?" 

She scoffs, but seeing as she's drunker than he's ever seen her, he's not sure he deserves the derision. Scratch that, he's certain he doesn't deserve the derision. "No, they were mostly empty."

This makes him feel a bit better, but he's not completely sure he believes her. Instead, he does what he does best and runs some quick calculations in his head. Either she started before he stopped by earlier or in the past six hours she's done nothing but sit and drink. An uncomfortable feeling springs up in his chest at the thought of her turning him away so she can drink alone on her couch. He should have pushed her earlier on the lie. This isn't about work. She hates her job, he knows that, but not  _ this  _ much. There's something more.

"Are you going to tell me what's really going on now?" Five asks, facing her. She's silent for a moment before nodding. He thinks that she must be worse off than he thought when she begins searching around the newspapers on the floor, throwing page after page back down before finally thrusting a paper in his hands. It's an engagement announcement, which makes no sense until he begins to read and a lightbulb comes on when he reaches the names. "Your ex?"

She nods, bouncing with anticipation or maybe to the music. It's hard to tell. "He's getting  _ married, _ " she sings at him, and he winces at the offkey tune. His eyes fall back on the picture, and he takes in the bleach white smile, the girl's hand on the ex's chest flashing a ring too big and flashy to say anything but  _ insecure _ . 

"Statistically, it'll only last eight years," Five says, his eyes returning to Y/N. She's attempting to lip sync with the song that's playing but is about two seconds behind the actual verse. There's an all too familiar twinge in his chest, it makes him feel sickly excited--anger. She's a complete mess over another man. 

Objectively this should only be a problem because he has enough messes to deal with between his siblings--he doesn't need her on the list too. But he'd be lying if that was the only reason he was angry. He'd be lying if that was a reason he was angry at all. She shouldn't be so upset by this. People get engaged. This guy dumped her. He didn't deserve  _ this. _ It was over between them. 

He wonders if she held out hope of going back to him. He wonders if he's been nothing more than a distraction for her. 

He wonders why that idea bothers him. 

"You're still...in love with him?" he guesses, and a chorus of no's fall from her lips. The amount of protest is suspicious, but there's fire in her eyes as she moves towards him and grabs his arm. She stops then, squeezing his tricep, and he wonders if she's about to admit something. He doesn't know what he'll do if she does. 

"Y/N," he prompts, and she looks up at him with big eyes.  _ Fuck.  _

"I just wish I had something to shove in his face," she says.  _ Fuck.  _

"Something to show him how wrong he was about me. You know?"  **_Fuck._ **

"I'm fucking future material," she asserts, shaking her hands in his face. And then she retreats with a sigh, grabbing a hold of the only other bottle with liquid in it. "But it looks like he was right. The fucker was right. I'm a reject." 

She thinks she's a reject. 

She thinks she deserves this.

He snatches the bottle away from her before she even has the chance to take a sip.

"Hey," she shouts, grabbing at him, and Five turns away from her to finish it off before she can get to it. She doesn't need any more alcohol, and he doesn't need any more truth. "Asshole," she grumbles. He's been on the receiving end of that word his entire life, but it isn't until this minute that he actually feels like one.

"You didn't need it," he tells her, placing the bottle back on the table before turning his back to her. He should get out of here. He should tell her to take a shower, drink some water, and go to bed. But instead, he's walking to her bedroom door. Because he can't leave. When he calls, she comes. Every time. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't push. She's steady. A constant. She deserves the same. She deserves more than this pathetic pity party. 

"Are you coming or not?" he asks her, and then she's moving towards him with an alarming speed considering her present state, but not quite enough to make it into the bedroom at the same time as him. Instead, he finds himself alone for the moment,looking around the room he's so familiar with. The work clothes thrown at the closet door, the scattering of papers and chargers and books and pens on her desk. The seven goddamn candles, all at various heights and always lit whenever she's home. It's a fire hazard, but she refuses to let go of the habit. None of them are lit now, though. 

There's a large thudding sound outside the door, and he already knows what he'll find. Sure enough, she's on the floor, pants tangled in her legs, flailing with all of the dignity of Klaus. He sighs, walking back over to her, slightly relieved when she frees herself before he has to deal with being kicked for trying to help her.

Years of rescuing hostages and dragging around his brothers makes it easy for him to sling her over his shoulders. Thankfully she's allowing herself to be carried and not scared half of her mind which makes the journey significantly easier from the last time he had to do this to someone.

It's a bit of a process to fling back the covers so he can put her in bed. It ends with her more falling onto the mattress as opposed to being placed down, but he's thrown her on a bed enough times that she doesn't seem to mind the slight bounce as she hits the mattress. 

As she settles herself in, he starts cramming all of the stupid pillows he's normally tossing onto the floor behind her back so that she doesn't die. He feels a bit like Vanya, which has that bittersweet feeling blooming in his chest once more.

He's about to tuck the edge of the blanket under the mattress when she sits up slightly and pulls him in, bringing his lips to her. She tastes like whiskey, but sweeter. There's no burn as her lips move against his with a surprising amount of dexterity. For a fleeting second, Five wonders if he can get secondhand tipsy from her kiss because it must be the alcohol that's causing the spinning feeling of intoxication in his head. 

He knows that's not it though. He knows he should pull away. There's a reason he stopped kissing her after their third time together. Why he only lets himself get tastes of her skin. But her tongue is slipping into his mouth and she's drawing him in, pulling him closer to her. His whole body is practically buzzing to follow her lead, and it takes every inch of his willpower to pull himself away from her and back out of her grasp. 

Her brow furrows in confusion as she drops back into the bed, her head hitting the pillow. "Youdon'wan'meei'er," she mumbles, and it's hardly more than sounds, but he understands.

"No. Not tonight," he says as he pushes the comforter between her mattress and boxspring. She sucks her teeth, turning away from him as he stands. Her eyes are closed, and there's still the small crease between her eyes. He shoves his hands in his pockets but keeps his eyes glued on her, and he can't bring himself to move until he sees the comforter rise and fall with her breath.

It would be irresponsible to leave her alone like this. He should stay at least until her roommate gets home. She deserves that much. 

Outside of the room, music is still blaring, so he walks out to turn it off. It takes a few minutes of searching to find her phone buried in the cushions so he can pause the playlist. When he comes back in, she curled up on her side, facing the edge of the bed. It makes him feel a bit better.

Five wanders over to her bookshelf, scanning the shelves before plucking out  _ One Hundred Years of Solitude  _ and then settles down on the other side of her pillow wall and cracks open the book. 

Her roommate still isn't back by 5 am, and Five is over halfway through the book and almost an entire carafe of coffee down. He shuts the book slowly, turning to look at her. She's hardly moved since he put her in bed aside from the steady rise and fall of her breathing. If anything was going to happen, it probably already would have. 

Quietly, he stands up from the bed, returning the book to its space on the shelf. He exits the room into the still apartment, shutting off the lights as he goes. When he enters the kitchen, his eyes land on the mostly empty coffee pot. 

He should clean that. 

Instead, he dumps it out and sets up a new pot, making a calculated guess on when she will wake up. The aspirin is conveniently located next to the bags of coffee, and he takes that down as well, along with a clearly handmade mug that screams Y/N. 

He glances around the kitchen one last time before switching off the light and heading out to find the living room lightswitch. It's as he passes the coffee table that he pauses, his eyes falling on the page of the newspaper she threw at him hours ago. He takes it up, flicks off the light, and goes home. 


	5. longed

_ Call me.  _

You've been dreading this note from Five for the past week. It's not that the words are new--a week ago, it would've been excitement causing the twisting feeling in your stomach--but it's the fact that this is the first note you've gotten since you're meltdown. Sure, he'd brushed off your apology, but it's been almost a full week since you've seen each other, and something just doesn't feel the same. Even your roommate has noticed something's off, and while you've shared the news about your ex, you can't bring yourself to tell her how you've gone and proven yourself to be more work than you're worth to Five. So, while the note itself is normal enough, you have the sinking sensation that this is his version of "We need to talk."

And you don't want to talk. 

That's why it takes you hours to finally steel yourself up enough to return his call. The sky's growing dark by the time you dial in the number, standing in the hall with you head tilted back against the wall, the phone cord weaving between your fingers. 

"Five." His brusque voice makes you want to hang up the phone. Instead, you adjust your grip and tug at the cord. 

"Hey," you say, softly. "It's Y/N." 

"Took you long enough." His voice is still flirting with being abrasive, but he's saying more than just a couple of words which must mean something. You're not sure what though. "What are you doing in...two hours?" 

Confusion knits your brow together as you wrap the cord around one of your fingers. "Nothing, I'm free." 

"Howling Rock Cafe. I'll be at the bar." 

"Ok," you agree. There's a pause and then the other end of the line goes dead. 

You sigh before slowly untangling yourself from the cord so you can hang up the phone and get ready

* * *

It's glaringly obvious within the first few seconds of entering the bar that this is not Five's scene.

You can't help but compare this place to the smoky night club where you first met. It's like night and day--and not just because this place has strobe lights bathing just about every inch of the room in colorful lights. 

For one, it seems to be crawling with barely legal drinkers. It's not like the two of you are  _ that _ far removed in age from the rest of the crowd, but Five doesn't exactly seem the type to want to relive college nights out. 

And then there's a cover band with the amps turned up  _ way _ too high as they work their way through pop covers. You miss the lyric-less music of the other bar with its relentless beat that seemed to reverberate in your chest.

It crosses your mind that maybe Five had meant another place or that you'd misheard him on the phone, but then you catch sight of him sitting at the bar with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. 

"What are you drinking?" You ask, slipping into the seat next to him. He looks at you with heavy lidded eyes, pupils already blown wide. His gaze slides from the curve of your breasts that disappear beneath the plunging neckline of your little black dress down to your legs. 

His eyes flick back up to meet yours. "Brandy. For now."

The line would be clumsy on another man's lips, but something about the way he says it has you dizzy, and it's the one piece of Five that's seemed anywhere close to normal since that night. 

You tear your eyes away from him, flagging down the bartender to order yourself a gin, neat. 

"So," you say, anxiety knotting in the pit of your stomach as you toy with the question that's been on your mind the entire way to the bar. "Howl's?" You change course last second, asking a different, less terrifying question.

"I'd heard things about this place," Five said with a shrug. "Figured I'd check them out." 

"What'd you hear?" It's genuine curiosity, and maybe it's the refocused attention or maybe it's the large gulp of gin, but you feel yourself relaxing slightly. 

"I heard they're heavy pourers," Five says, taking a sip of his drink. He lifts both eyebrows and places the glass back down on the bar. "But it would seem I heard wrong."

You laugh. Nothing about this place suggests they have strong drinks. The prices are too cheap. The crowd is too young.

"At least the atmosphere is nice," you quip, and Five looks around the room before shooting you a mildly amused look. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a loud group of co-eds who just walked in the door. You turn to look. One is draped in a pink "It's my birthday!" sash. This does not bode well. 

"Let's go back to mine. I've restocked," you offer, but Five shakes his head. You wait for him to share a reason or even pick up the sentence he didn't get out, but he doesn't, instead taking another sip of his subpar brandy. 

You wish that you had your own drink in front of it, shooting a look at the bartender who looks to be making about four drinks at once. The knot inside of you has come back, growing even tighter as the silence extends. Silence has never been uncomfortable with Five before.

You attribute this largely to the fact that up until this point you've always been so careful about following the rules of engagement, as it were. And while you don't know for sure it feels like you're guilty of a breach of contract. You wish you could remember what you said, but you can hardly even remember what you did. It's all a blur.

You know he came over, you announced your ex's engagement, and then he tucked you into bed and made sure you had coffee the next morning. 

There had to have been more to that night than just that, though. Because emotions and caretaking--that wasn't part of the deal. 

Then again, neither was going out to bars. 

The bartender placed your gin in front of you and gratefully you took a long drink from it before setting it down. You could feel Five's eyes on you as you lowered the glass back down. 

"That kind of day?" he asked. 

You returned your attention to him. "That kind of week," you corrected. He nodded and toasted you with his own glass before the both of you drank. 

You tapped your finger lightly against the side of your gin, the alcohol had yet to take hold but you could feel the warming sensation flowing through you. It was enough of a comfort to know that soon the nerves that had been humming beneath your skin all week would be quiet. "So, why are we here?" The words slipped past your lips, earning a raised eyebrow from Five.

"I told you, I wanted to check this place out." 

"That's it?" Your finger still beat steadily against the side of your glass. 

You could see the awareness dawn on Five, a sly smile twisting at his lips. "I can't just want your company?" 

Your heart skipped a beat. Or maybe it was three. And although the alcohol was supposed to have you pleasantly numb, instead you felt like you were on fire. "I would have thought you had enough of my company after last week."

Realization reached his eyes this time as he shook his head at you. "No," he said, angling his body more towards yours. "I haven't had enough." 

* * *

The two of you are in the bathroom two hours later. 

As far as bar bathrooms go, it's surprisingly clean and roomy. The second part is probably due to the fact the owners had opted for a single use closet style bathroom as opposed to anything remotely functional for the size of the crowd this place has drawn in with it's mediocre music and watered down drinks.

It's not the worst place to have sex, but if you were in your right mind you probably would have insisted that Five pop you back to your place instead. But the consecutive drinks and Five's hand trailing up your thigh had been so intoxicating, you didn't even protest when he took your hand in his and dragged you in here to push you up against the sink.

His mouth is on your neck now, his teeth lightly nipping at the skin there, his hands keeping your dress bunched up at your waist. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he moves your panties to the side, pressing a finger into you.  _ "Five," _ you mumble, a moan escaping you as he curls his finger. 

"Louder," Five commands, his lips grazing against your neck, moving down to trail love bites along your collarbone. He pushes into you again, and his name falls from your lips again, this time at a normal volume. 

"Louder," Five urges, kissing under your jaw, as fist the back of his shirt in your hands. Your entire body feels like a taut string, and he's just getting started. You know this has to be quick, there's probably going to be a line outside, but the way his fingers are moving have effectively killed all thoughts outside of the fact that you haven't lost him. He's still, in some small way, yours.

"Five, please," you plead, and you're not quite sure what you're pleading for--release or more of him.

" _ Fuck, _ " he swears, withdrawing from you and spinning you around, so you have both hands on either side of the sink, your ass exposed to him. He leans in close, and you can feel the length of his entire body against your back. "I love it when you beg." His whisper is hot in your ear, and a needy gasp leaving you. Dirty talk isn't part of the usual routine, and you didn't expect it to have such an effect. 

He withdraws, his fingers tucking into the sides of your underwear and dragging them down to your knees. Behind you, you hear his buckle clink as he frees himself from his pants. It's a second more of anticipation before his hands find your hips, and he slowly enters you, allowing you to feel each inch of him. His fingers dig into your hips as a groan leaves him. Warmth blooms in your chest, and you promise yourself that you'll remember this moment and that sound forever. 

Five continues to move at the sensual pace, and your eyes flick up to the mirror, taking in his face. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, and an intense but unidentifiable feeling builds in you. And then his hips unexpectedly snap into yours, earning him a loud moan. 

It also seems to earn a knock at the door.

"Alright guys, wrap it up. Other people need to use the bathroom," a gruff voice says on the other side of the door. 

It might have been a bit of a mood killer if it weren't for the fact that Five repeats the motion, leaving you gasping. He pulls you up close to him, one hand on your hip and the other toying with your breast. "Can't leave them waiting," he grunts, and your head lolls back onto his shoulder. Despite the fact that it's been shorter than the vast majority of your sessions together, you're more of a needy mess then you've ever been. Maybe it's the combination of the alcohol and publicness and the sounds coming from Five, but whatever it is, it's not long before you're cumming, and not long after, he is too.

There's now pounding at the door. 

"Come on, you guys gotta get out. Let's go."

Five smirks at you from where he's pulling his pants back up--or at least, if he was anyone else you'd call it a smirk. It's softer than usual though--although it's still not quite a smile. Like you're in on the joke  _ with  _ him. It makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're just able to stop yourself from a full blown smile, the corners of your mouth turning down in an attempt to seem cool as usual. He gestures with his head towards the door, and after checking yourself in the mirror and making yourself seem slightly more presentable, you follow him out, keeping your eyes trained on the floor so you don't have to look at the bouncer or line of people waiting by the door.

Unfortunately, the bouncer seems to have other plans. 

"Y/N?" 

You know that voice. Without the door between you and the fake gruffness, it's clear as day, and it feels a bit like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over your head. You feel painfully sober.

Your eyes widen, and you turn to see your ex dressed in the black t-shirt and jeans, looking just as shocked to see you. 

"Oh my God," you mumble. 

"Uh--" he says, pointing to the door, and you make your way towards it, Five still next to you, and your ex following up behind you. You stop just beside the door, across from where another bouncer is checking IDs. 

"Sorry, I--you can't stay." He does seem genuinely apologetic, and you're not sure if it's just the awkwardness of the whole situation or if he really feels bad. 

"No, no. I get it," you shake your head. Five's hand drifts to the small of your back, and you previously blank mind remembers that oh yeah--he's here too. This is the worst moment of your life. "Oh, this is, um, Five. Five, this is Jordan. We...used to date." That seems like a wildly simplistic introduction for both of them, but you're still reeling. 

"Five? Like the kid from The Umbrella Academy?" 

Five's smile is so fake you wouldn't be surprised if Jordan could also sense the thinly veiled animosity. "The very same," Five says, holding out his hand and shaking Jordan's. His arm returns around you. 

Jordan looks like he's a mixture of confused and impressed, and before this situation can get any worse, you open your mouth and start saying words, hoping they come out in order and make sense. 

"I didn't know you work here."

Jordan's eyes linger on Five for a second more before meeting yours. "Yeah, I had to pick up another job...I'm getting married."

"Oh, congratulations." you say less than earnestly, pushing hair behind your ear. Emotion swirls in your chest, pressure building to react--to sob, to scream, to sink into the ground. Anything but stand here. 

"Well," Five says, coming to your rescue. "I should take her home." You look up at him, and there's a ghost of smugness on his face. If you hadn't studied him for so long, you might have missed the look, but it's there.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Jordan nods, stepping back towards the bar. "It was good to see you, Y/N."

It's a lie. But he's not the only liar here. "You too," you say nodding. "Good luck with the wedding." 

"Thanks," he nods again like a bobblehead, and you turn and head out the door quickly with Five. 

The two of you walk down the sidewalk and towards the parking garage in silence. It's not until you're passing rows of cars that Five speaks. "Did you drive?"

You shake your head, your thoughts still on the way Five had handled that situation. You have a terrible feeling. 

It's unspoken that Five will give you a ride home, so you don't bother to ask for a ride. Instead, you save up your question, waiting until the two of you are stopped at a red light, halfway home to ask.

"Did you know he worked there?"

The corner of Five's mouth turns up. "Might have been a thing I heard about that place." 

You have more questions, but you don't want to ask them. That one was enough to shatter the illusion you'd been creating all night.

That he had brought you out because he wanted your company.

That he might return a hint of the feelings you had for him.

That this was something other than what it was.


	6. satisfied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final installment. I'm also impressed I've managed to pull off my own little goal which was to make each chapter longer as we go deeper and deeper into this relationship. It was fun to write, and I hope you stick with me for my next series.

You've ignored four of his calls.

Well, technically, you've only ignored one, deleting the message from the answering machine after a short but brutal internal war. The other three times he's tried to get in touch with you were on the typical ripped out notes taped to your mirror. Each one was plucked down, scanned for words you didn't really expect to find (sorry, mistake, asshole), and then tossed into the waste bin.

You know that even as fucked up as your last encounter was, he deserves more--an explanation or at least a clean break--but you can't bring yourself to give him either. And you hate that about yourself. You hate it because you know why you can't do it, and the feeling that comes from this fact is worse than any of the ways Five's ever made you feel.

So, you don't call him. Instead, you work to erase the little traces of him you find in your apartment and in your thoughts until at last you're faced with something you can't just stick in the garbage: the man himself.

He's standing at the foot of your bed, hands on his hips and brow knit together. The look stops you dead in your tracks as you enter the room.

"You're avoiding me."

You feel like you're going to throw up. The thought briefly crosses your mind that if you do, you might get out of having this conversation. But instead you take a few more steps into the room and close the door behind you. When you face him again, you find his finger tapping at his waist. Your eyes remain on the finger instead of his face and you stay silent. This isn't an admission of guilt, but he seems to take it as one.

"Why?" he demands.

Objectively, you know the words. You're proficient in more than one language, so frankly you have more than enough words to use. But you can't seem to piece them together quite right, and so, no sound comes out. Instead you turn your gaze to your right and it lands on the candle on your bookshelf. The flame flickers, dancing in a breeze you can't feel yourself. You feel like there's a metaphor somewhere in there.

"Look--"

"Why would you do that to me, Five?" Your voice is soft, but the interruption effectively cuts him off. If you were looking, you'd imagine you'd see his eyes squint at you in frustrated confusion. His mouth would be slightly open, and you'd want to kiss it closed. So you can't face him. Your gaze stays fixated on the candle.

"Do what?"

You wet your lips as if that will help get out what you need to say. It doesn't work, but it does buy you a bit of time and makes the tension in the room that much more palpable. You wonder if that's what's guiding the flame through its movements.

"You brought me to Howl's just to fuck me in front of my ex."

Five's quiet now, and you chance a look at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn't look frustrated, but he does look like he's working a math problem and each time he comes to the end he gets a different solution.

He notices you're looking and tries to catch your eye, so you turn back to watch the candle burn it's way down the wick.

"You said you wanted something to shove in his face."

You don't remember saying that, but it's true. You _did_ want something to shove in his face. But not like this. You shake your head at him. "Not that." Your voice is both airy and tight, and it's not a good sign. "That wasn't anything worth shoving in his face."

"What?" There's heat in Five's voice now, and you can tell that something you've said has pushed a button. "He's working two jobs so he can get married to some boring elementary school teacher, and you're having mindblowing sex with the closest thing this city has to a goddamn superhero. Who came out on top there?"

"You," you say, simply.

"Me?" he repeats, and you finally find the strength to turn and face him. His eyebrows have shot up so high, you're surprised they're not touching his hairline.

"You're the one who got what they wanted out of that show Five. Because he's still happily getting married having been proven right that I'm nothing more than a call girl dumb enough to work for free."

Five narrows his eyes at you, and there's nothing confused about the look. Instead, he looks downright mean. You realize in that look, that he's missed the point completely. He's not listening to you. He's not seeing you. And you're starting to realize that he may not even _want_ to. The realization hurts. It fucking _hurts._ Like you're being ripped apart from the inside. And the worst part is that you really should have known this.

Before he can get any words out, you beat him to the punch. It's the only way this argument was ever going to end. "I can't do this anymore, Five."

The look shifts into one of incredulousness and then disgust and then stoniness. And then, without a word, he vanishes. ****

* * *

You feel like you've collapsed on the inside.

Apparently, you look like it too.

Your boss had taken one look at you and tried to send you back home. You'd told her that you were fine to work and made it half the day before she insisted you looked truly terrible and needed to go home. And maybe see a doctor.

Judging by the look on your roommate's face, you look even worse now that you've made it home.

"Are you alright?" she asks, peering up at you from the couch.

"Got sent home early," you mumble. It's not exactly an answer to her question, but you hope that it gets you out of having to talk anymore. It's not that you don't love your roommate. But you'd rather crawl in bed and stay there for a month if it meant that you didn't have to socialize with any humans in the meantime.

You successfully shuffle all the way into your room and drop your things next to your desk before the TV shuts off. Your roommate's footsteps echo throughout the apartment, and then there's silence and the feeling of someone hovering in the doorway behind you.

"I'm worried," she says, and you sigh, your shoulders dropping as you turn around.

"I'm fine."

She hums a no and gestures at your room. You've let piles of dirty clothes take over most of the floor. There's about six different cups scattered on different surfaces, all with varying levels of water in them. Only one of the candles is lit. Her eyes find yours again, and you can't help but look away. "You've been locked in here all weekend. And most of last week too. I know he hasn't been by. He hasn't even called. What's up?"

You shrug helplessly, and the same way they do any time you think of Five, your eyes betray you and start to water.

"You don't know?" she presses, and you shake your head, looking off to the side, trying to get your under control. She walks into the bedroom then, coming around to sit on the edge of your bed and stare up at you. "Talk to me, Y/N. Seriously, I'm worried about you, and I don't know what to do."

"I--" your voice feels too thick, and you're having a hard time keeping it even as it comes out. "It's over." Your roommate's eyebrows draw down in sympathy as do the corners of her mouth.

"He ended it."

You shake your head and swallow. "I did." The pitch is too high now.

"Why?" your roommate's voice softens in response to yours, and it's then that you break, face crumpling, tears falling, and a broken sob escaping. She doesn't say anything more, instead rising from the bed and wrapping her arms around you from the side, leaning her head against your shoulder.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time to stop crying. Then again, any time spent crying over a boy who you weren't dating and never made any promises in terms of feelings or commitments was embarrassing. But, when you do slow down, you finally find the words to tell her everything. What happened while she was away. Your trip to the bar and what you discovered. Your fight. She listens and doesn't say anything, instead doing the one thing that you need most from her: she doesn't let go.

* * *

You look less like shit.

But you still feel awful.

It's been just over a week since your fight with Five, and you feel like you should be over it by now. The disappointment, the embarrassment, the hurt. But you're not. Sure, you don't exactly feel like an open wound anymore. But you feel a bit like someone's just put a single layer of gauze on top, and that's not nearly enough.

So, you decide there's only one course of action that will make you feel better on this Saturday morning: Griddy's Doughnuts.

Just walking into the shop makes you feel lighter. The sweet smell of the different glazes and jellies wafts through the air, and kids are crammed up against the doughnut case and perched on stools with their parents. Walking into the place is like a time warp--it feels exactly the same way it did all those years ago when you were the kid tugging at her mom's hand.

And then you make accidental eye contact, and it all shatters. Because the brown eyes you're staring into belong to none other than Vanya Hargreeves.

You pull over to the side of the line to do the right thing and make brief small talk. If it hadn't been for two occasions where she'd come home sooner than planned, you wouldn't be in this situation. She wouldn't recognize you. But this girl's seen you half naked and spoken to you several times over the phone. She knows more of you than you wish she did. She probably feels the same way. Regardless of the willingness either of you have to engage in this conversation, she's coming over, bag of doughnuts and tray of coffee in hand.

"Y/N, hi," she greets, offering a nervous looking smile.

"Hi," Your own attempt at a smile is disastrous. It's too tight and it doesn't reach your eyes. It hardly even reaches your cheekbones. "Seems like we had a similar Saturday morning idea."

She nods, looking down at the bag in her hand. "Yeah. We have this family tradition to grab Griddy's whenever one of us--" she stops then, seeming to remember who she's talking to and restarts with a safer question. "How are you?"

Vanya's voice sounds the way Griddy's smells--like nostalgia and comfort and it makes you ache inside. You want to know how her sentence was going to end, but you want out of this conversation more.

"I'm doing fine," It comes out more of an exhale than a word, and she seems to see right through it.

She nods, her smile taking on a sad quality. "You and Five both then. Guess we did get the same memo about Griddy's."

A silence seeps in between the two of you, and you hate the way this feels--like your drowning in the middle of a swimming pool and trying not to call attention to it.

"I don't want to pry--" She must see you go rigid because she seems to decide on a different route. "I don't know what happened, but I'm sorry it didn't work out. I know you guys cared a lot about each other."

You don't know how to respond to that. You're not sure if you want to be the fool who fell in love with her friends with benefits or the slut who was just in it for _phenomenal_ sex or the bitch who points out Vanya's brother is a heartless bastard and doesn't deserve doughnuts because he clearly never gave a damn. She must catch the crease between your eyebrows, your lips instinctively puckering into a qualification, because she saves you from responding.

"Look, I know Five can be...a lot. And I don't know what he did, but I can tell it was big and it wasn't good." She looks like she wants to reach out and touch you, but her hands--thankfully--are full. "But you should know, he checks the answering machine every day."

It stings. He still thinks you'll call.

And you almost have.

You can't look at her open and earnest face any longer, so you look down at the ground and nod dumbly. "Thanks." She stays in front of you, and you can feel that she wants to break the silence again. You swallow hard and force yourself to meet her gaze once more. "Well, I don't want your coffees to get cold. It was nice to run into you, though, Vanya."

She nods, her mouth settling into a line. "Take care of yourself, ok?" she asks, and you lift your lips into half a smile because it's just about as much as you can manage. She nods once more and then turns and leaves the doughnut shop. You get in line.

* * *

Your roommate decides it's time for you to leave the house.

You point out that you leave the house almost every day.

She argues that leaving for work doesn't count. It's been two weeks and you need to have fun.

You insist that if you're going to have fun, it's not going to be on a Tuesday.

She informs you that there will be dollar tacos where she's going.

That's how you end up at Don Pablo's at eight o'clock on a Tuesday night with your roommate and two other friends all crowded around a table. It's hard to say what it is, the dollar tacos, the strong margaritas, the good company or the Spanish covers of pop songs, but whatever it is, you're feeling lighter than you have. You're even laughing as your friend, Faith, updates you on the latest antics of the passive aggressive post-it queen at her work.

"That is...one hell of a story," someone to the right of your table says, and the eyes of the group look up to a lanky man with shoulder length brown hair. He's wearing a [mesh crop top](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.thesun.co.uk%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2019%2F04%2FNINTCHDBPICT000485785959.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.thesun.co.uk%2Ffabulous%2F8952786%2Fsparkly-cropped-see-through-tee-shirt-men%2F&tbnid=1lNijPto14mZPM&vet=12ahUKEwidu42Hk93sAhVCCN8KHSDSCssQMygFegUIARDCAg..i&docid=k0nGcAPiUMYHHM&w=513&h=655&q=mesh%20crop%20top%20men&ved=2ahUKEwidu42Hk93sAhVCCN8KHSDSCssQMygFegUIARDCAg) that sparkles a little under the light and leather pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, a fact that's captured Sam's attention.

The man pushes off from where he's leaning against the coat rack, and it's a testament to Faith's storytelling prowess that not a single one of you noticed him lurking there until this point. He motions for Faith to budge over, and the motion is so familiar and friendly that she scoots without protest.

"So," he says, resting his chin in both of his palms. "Which one of you radiant young ladies is Y/N?"

The words are objectively skeevy, but much like his admittance to the table, this earns nothing but a few snorts and smiles. He's also smiling like he's in on the joke, and it's genuine and sparkling rather than leering. You're half tempted to tell him, but your roommate stops you.

"Why?" Nasreen asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because she's the one person who will save us from my brother's broody pining," he says with a faux pout.

Nasreen's eyebrows lift even higher. "Isn't it a little middle school of your brother to send you over here for him?"

He chuckles and lifts his head, shaking a finger at your roommate. She grins back at him. "Yes, it would be, but he very expressly told me _not_ to come over here. I'm here looking for Y/N of my own free will." He glances around the table and steals a chip out of your basket, dipping it into the salsa. "Technically," he says, crunching down on the chip. "I'm risking my life for this."

Sam laughs and the man grins, reaching for another chip. "It's true. He said, and this is a direct quote, 'Klaus, if you go over there, I will drive this tiny umbrella through your eyeball until it hits that thing you call a brain and puts us all out of our misery.'" He pops the chip into his mouth and gives a dramatic eye roll. "Very eloquent, my brother."

Your friends laugh at this, even Nasreen, but you grow cold. Because you know one person with a brother named Klaus.

"So," Klaus bounces his shoulders once, sitting up straighter. "Who am I sacrificing myself for?" He looks around the table pleasantly just as Sam glances at you. It's a small motion, but Klaus latches onto it. "Ah," Klaus says gesturing toward you. "I'm going to need you to come fuck my brother."

Faith spits out her margarita. Sam barks out a sudden laugh. Nasreen blinks and draws back into the booth.

"I know he's an emotionally stunted little asshole, but he's been even more insufferable than usual, and Vanya says it's because of you." He drops his hand onto the table, relaxing back into the booth. "Obviously, he's the one at fault--you seem like an angel. But it would mean the world if you would come fix our little shitheel."

It's the name Vanya that brings Nasreen up to speed.

"I'm vetoing this right now," your roommate says, shaking her head. Klaus presses his hands together and points them at her.

"Your objection has been heard and noted, but let's hear from Y/N."

All of the eyes on the table are on you, and dollar tacos isn't enough to redeem this moment. You shake your head slowly. "No."

"No," Klaus repeats. He seems surprised.

"No, I'm tired of being fucked over so Five can feel better. No." Your roommate's approval radiates over you, strengthening the feeling. Faith and Sam straighten up at the mention of Five.

Klaus heaves a sigh and leans back to rest his head on the top of the booth's cushion. "I don't blame you, but I don't want to go back over there," he says to the ceiling. "Not only is he going to publicly murder me, but he'll probably drive me up this stucco painted wall with his moodiness before he does it." He lolls his head to turn to Faith. "Can I stay here with you?"

Faith laughs a little, looking at the rest of you.

"Depends," your roommate says, leaning on the table.

"On?" Klaus raises an eyebrow.

"If the next round is on you."

* * *

When you stumble into your apartment, it's a little past 1 am, and you're not so much as drunk as you are high on a good time. Allowing Klaus to stay at your table had been the best decision you'd made in the past...month? Maybe longer. Not only had he supplied you with enough good stories to take your mind far away from Five (whose gaze you could feel once you knew it was there) but Klaus had also pulled each of you up to salsa with him despite the fact that it wasn't a dance bar at all. Still, several other couples from different tables had followed his lead, and you'd allowed yourself to be spun and turned about until your legs were ready to collapse.

It's hard to imagine that anything can bring yourself down from this feeling as you place a kiss on your roommate's cheek and thank her for dragging you out.

Then again, you hardly imagined Five would be popping into your bedroom at 1:30 in the morning.

His hair is wild, eyes are hazy, and he looks more disheveled than you've ever seen him. "You were there. You were there and Klaus came over, and what the fuck?"

You've never heard so many nonsensical words come out of his mouth.

"Are you...drunk?" you ask, dumping your clothes at the door to your closet.

"Figured that one out," he says, gesturing flailing at you. "I got drunk because that's what you do when the _one_ person in this world who doesn't make your life worse won't even look across a bar at you." He says.

You, for your part, remain silent, head tilted, trying to make sense of what's going on--how much of this is him and how much of it is the alcohol. Because you can't believe he's this upset--Five doesn't seem to do emotions other than stressed, horny, and smug.

He sways a bit. "You were right there. _Right there._ And you didn't even look at me. Not even when fuckin' Klaus went over."

"I didn't realize you cared that much," you say quietly.

Five scoffs. "Why else would I spend _five days_ hunting down your ex just so you could get your closure."

You blink several times at this fact, but you don't have time to formulate some sort of response before he continues. "Do you know how many Jordan Millers there are in this city?"

"You--what?" The words come out as hardly more than a disbelieving whisper.

"Five days and perfect planning to get you there and have it all work out at just the right moment, only for you to end it. No reason. You just ended it."

You swallow hard and then fix him with a stare. Because he's right--he should at least have a reason. "I didn't end it because of Howl's." You pause, and he takes it as the end of the sentence because he continues on.

"I don't even know what happened. I keep trying to work it out. It's all I can fucking think about, and I can't figure it out. You wanted just sex, so I gave you just sex. You wanted to show up your ex, so I made sure you could show up your ex." His voice takes on a hysterical quality as he starts to pace the room. "What am I missing? Please, enlighten me. Because Vanya and Allison are up my ass about trying to fix things with you, and hell if I know where to begin."

"You can't fix this," you shake your head and then wet your lips, steeling yourself up for the most embarrassing truth. "I ended it because I wanted more, and you didn't."

He pauses and then lets out a manic laugh. "So you left because you wanted to be with me?"

"I left because I thought it was just sex to you, and that's all it would ever be."

"That's all it was supposed to be," he says, not stopping his pacing. "That's what we both wanted."

"Want _ed_ ," you repeat, quietly. "Wants change."

He lets out a manic laugh. "Oh, I know that," he says and stalks closer to you. "Why else would I be here right now, still trying to figure out what you want so I can give it to you instead of fucking any of the girls who came up to me tonight?"

You blink a few times, and this has to be an exhaustion induced delusion, because there's no way he's saying what you think he's saying.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, quietly. He doesn't answer, instead closing the remainder of the distance, pulling your body flush against yours and kissing you.

He tastes like margaritas. His kiss is as intoxicating as the alcohol itself, the sensation rushing through your body and urging you to relax into him. He's only kissed you four times before, and all of those were different. In those kisses his hands ran over your body, pushing at your clothes, his frame walking you back towards the bed. But now he's solid, and his hands are still, a vice keeping you close to him as his lips remain on yours.

It takes an extraordinary strength of will to extract yourself from his kiss. "Don't do this," you whisper, your lips brushing his since he's chased after your kiss.

"Why?" he pulls you even closer, pressing another kiss to your lips.

"Because you don't mean this," you say, bringing your hands in between your bodies to push him away. "You're drunk and you're lonely and…"

"And I want you," he says, not moving, ducking his head to kiss you again.

"No you don't."

The words make him step back angrily. "I don't know how to make it any fucking clearer," he says, raking a hand through his hair. "I want you. I want you Y/N. I wish I didn't. I wish things would go back to being just sex. Because my life was so much easier then. But they can't. Not for you and not for me. You want more. I want you. So why won't you just accept that and let me kiss you?"

As far as romantic speeches go, it's pretty shitty.

"Fine," you say.

It's an equally shitty romantic response.

But then he's kissing you again, and you let yourself lean into the hope that maybe, come morning, he'll still mean what he said.

* * *

When you wake up, Five's gone.

The other side of the bed is tucked in tightly, like he was never even there. But you know he was. Because if he wasn't, there's no reason for your whole body to ache inside and out. It's tempting to stay in bed and throw yourself a mix of pity party and roast. After all, last night you exhibited top tier dumbassery.

But you're tired of feeling like shit. So you drag yourself out from under the covers and towards your door, hoping that some coffee and a warm breakfast will help you to feel better.

You pad out to the door and down the short hallway to come out to the kitchen where your roommate is pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“My head hurts like a sonofabitch,” she says, reaching into the cabinet to grab down a mug for you. “You?”

You give a rueful smile and head over to stand next to her by the coffeepot. “Surprisingly, I’m ok. Better than yesterday.”

“Good,” she says, fill your mug up.

Your toilet flushes, and both you and your roommate look at each other. The silent question is answered not long after as there, appearing in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s clothes and looking a bit disheveled, is Five.

It’s the first time your roommate has ever seen him.

“Uh…hello?” your roommate says, and Five nods at her, moving forward to steal your mug of coffee. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long sip.

“You’re…here,” you say dumbly, and he nods, drinking some more coffee.

“It’s where I want to be.”

Your roommate looks between the two of you. “And you are…”

“Five,” he says over his coffee, and your roommate looks between the two of you wildly before finally settling you with a significant look.

“You’re going to have to make more coffee, and explain all of this to me,” she says, circling a finger at Five.

You look at him, a small twist of a smile on your lips. “Fine with me.”


End file.
